


Not To Win But To Take Part

by MarcellaBianca



Series: Citius, Altius, Fortius [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexuality, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Sneaking Around, World Figure Skating Championships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarcellaBianca/pseuds/MarcellaBianca
Summary: Vignettes in the life of Olympic silver medalist, World Champion, and figure skating coach James Buchanan Barnes, from 1992 to 2018.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Told you this was coming!
> 
> The title is taken from one of the unofficial mottos of the Olympics, coined by Pierre de Coubertin (the same guy who coined Citius, Altius, Fortius): “"The most important thing is not to win but to take part!"

_Brooklyn, 1992._

The word  _faggot_ hits Bucky with the strength of a quadruple toe loop. Like Elvis Stojko crashed into him so he's four feet until the ground, but he's still upright. Ice splinters his cheeks from the inside out, cracking open, revealing lava and rage bursting forth.

When Steve lunges, Bucky doesn't move. He thinks about it for a split second. Not to protect Steve from those assholes - the assholes need protecting from all that four foot nothin' of piss and vinegar, if anything - but to help Steve wreck Brock's stupid face.

 

He doesn't know what that word means, but it sounds in his bones, a plucked note on a cello. 

When it's over, Bucky's throat is raw like shards of glass and Steve's head is woozily lifting up from the ice. Thank god for that giant helmet.

The ride home with Bucky's mom is quiet. Winnie isn't mad; she'd listened to Bucky's explanation for Steve's bleeding lip, then hugged them both until Bucky gently reminded her that Brock got a swing at Steve's ribs. 

* * *

 

Steve calls him the next day. Tells him about what that word means. Bucky shrugs it off, easily, the way he always dismisses things he doesn't want to deal with. As if he's unaware of the cinderblock newly resting around his neck. 

He doesn't want Steve to think he's weird.

Doesn't want Steve to think he's anything.

* * *

 

Lorraine kissed Steve at recess last fall. Bucky had been playing kickball. Steve was sitting on the hill next to the field with his inhaler at his side, in case any pollen made his lungs close up. Bucky was in the outfield, not really paying attention to the game. Lorraine had approached Steve, lips moving, broad smile, and then those lips were on Steve's, and the world went red - 

"Fore!"

Red rubber smacked hard into the side of Bucky's head. "Watch it, Barnes!" Emma Frost called snidely as she rounded second base. Bucky shook himself, then picked up the ball and fired it straight at her back. He got her just after she touched down on third, but the groans of his teammates didn't even register. Not when Steve looked flushed and embarrassed and oddly, deliriously happy.

* * *

_October, 2015._

"Harder."

Bucky hears the smile in Steve's inhale. He buries his head into the side of the couch, tensing his legs so they don't give out from underneath him, and pushes his ass back to get more of Steve's cock inside him. Steve makes a noise dangerously close to a whine and snaps his hip forward until Bucky can feel that dick in his fucking sternum.

The back of his neck smarts with the residual burn of Steve's off-season beard. He's shaving it off soon for a photoshoot with _GQ_. Even though he's promised he'll grow it back the second the shoot is over, Bucky's still mad, so he wants a  _lot_ of reminders of how it feels against his bare skin.

"If I go any harder I'm gonna break my dick off, babe," Steve wheezes, and the sound immediately makes Bucky tense up in blind panic before he remembers Steve's asthma isn't as bad as it used to be. His eyes still flick to the kitchen drawer that contains the inhaler. 

He decides to play dirty. "Remember back in July, at the ESPYs?"

There's a pause, but the low noise from behind Bucky tells him Steve remembers. "I don't remember the ESPYs, I remember the bathroom at the after-party of the ESPYs," he breathes. They hadn't attended together, of course. Steve's still closeted at work, and Bucky's not a moron. But they'd met up at Butter later on in the night, and it had reminded both of them of those several nights back in their mid-twenties, when all they could settle for were desperate handjobs in club bathrooms. This was a little bit more elegant; they'd barricaded a bathroom door and Bucky had dropped to his knees and wrapped his mouth around Steve's cock. Later that night, he'd fucked Steve like his life had depended on it. Time for Steve to return the favor.

"Well, you shouldn't have worn that suit," Bucky shrugs, or at least tries to. He's thrown over the back of the couch, pants around his ankles, holding on for dear life after Steve had quickly scissored him open and slapped on a condom before slamming home. They'd come back from a get-together at Sam's, and the booze and constant little looks and touches all night had been asking for trouble. "You make it too fucking easy to drop to my knees and suck your dick."

"What the hell has gotten into you?" Steve chokes, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. That means he's still thinking straight. Bucky reaches back with his hand to find Steve's ass, pulling him closer. 

Anything to get him closer.

Anyone who says this is wrong, or weird, has never had a cock like Steve's.

Bucky closes his eyes and narrows his world down to the feel of Steve's body bent over him from behind, taking him apart. 

He's waited so fucking long for this. He's getting his fairy-tale ending.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hates Peggy Carter. He doesn't want to. It's just...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if the underage tag applies to masturbating, but 17 year old Bucky jerks off in this chapter and there are references to Peggy and Steve having sex at 17. If that's something that squicks you out, skip to the "March 2015" portion of the story!

_September, 1997._

He hates Peggy Carter. _  
_

Even during early morning practice, when he's soaring through his new routine and his coach praises him effusively for landing that new footwork pass, Bucky hates Peggy Carter.

He doesn't want to. Doesn't even know why (oh, he totally does, but unpacking that would mean a whole host of things). It's just...

It's a scab on his heart. Every time his heart pumps, it flakes open. It makes it a little difficult to breathe, especially when Steve smiles at her.

"You look like you just ate a lemon," Winnie remarks as they drive home. It's funny. It should be funny.

It's anything but funny.

 

* * *

 

_January, 1998._

 

It hits him on the second night they're in Detroit. Pierce is nice, if a little strict, and has Bucky going to bed at a precise hour every night in order for his body to have significant recovery time. Bucky's unpacking his pajamas when something falls out of his suitcase, a folded up piece of paper with  _Bucky_ written on the front. Fingers trembling slightly, Bucky opens it.

It's a cartoon of himself in a full layback spin, music notes swirling up his legs and bouncing off his arms. At the bottom, Steve's written  _For the best figure skater in the world, come home a champ!  - Steve_

Oh.

_Oh._

It keeps him up three hours past his designated bedtime, this realization that sits like a thousand pound weight in his chest, the discovery that he left his heart with a scrappy skinny bruiser back in Brooklyn.

It's a realization that smacks into him, a hard backhand to the face.

 

* * *

 

_August, 1999._

When the phone rings Bucky's sleeping, or at least trying to, after a long day of Pierce practically throwing the book at him in practice. Carol had looked at him with a long sigh and patted him on the shoulder on the way to the locker rooms. He'd managed to drift off after a long epsom salt bath and some quality time with a foam roller. 

His brain snaps awake at the sound of Steve's voice on the the other end of the line. "What's wrong?" he asks, blurry at the edges of his voice but no less alert. 

"No, no, everything's fine." Steve's breath sounds labored. Bucky's own chest gets tight.

"I did it."

"Did..."

Dammit, he can hear Steve's blush through the phone. "We...Peggy and I. We had...we did it." Steve sounds embarrassed but so fucking proud of himself that it's relatively easy for Bucky to swallow down the scream building in his throat. It lodges in the middle of his esophagus, burning like asphalt.

"Congrats!" he croaks, then swallows again to smooth over the cracks. "About damn time."

"Yeah. It was pretty awesome. At least I hope it was for her. I wanted it to be good for her."

"I'm sure it was fantastic," Bucky reassures him, squeezing a handful of sheets in his fist. Heat pools in his legs.

"It was for me, definitely." Steve's voice drops down to a register that Bucky's literally never heard out of his best friend. Steve naturally has a deep voice that sounds slightly out of place coming out of that small, bird-boned frame, but this is neighboring a growl. Bucky's instantly, painfully hard. He rolls over onto his stomach, pressing his cock into the mattress, both to get some small relief and to maybe will it down with the pressure. This isn't the first time Steve's accidentally made him get a boner, but now it's accompanied by images both delicious and infuriating. "I don't want to get into details because I don't want to invade her privacy or anything" - Bucky holds back a snort, because _of course_ Steve would be considerate of his girlfriend like that - "but man, now I know what the older guys on the team were always on about when they were talking about that shit in the locker room."

Bucky doesn't say that he'd lost his virginity earlier that year, during Worlds. Victor Mancha, the Spanish national champion, sometimes trained with Bucky back in Detroit. They'd given each other meaningful looks behind Pierce's back, and spent a lot of time playing Pokemon together. After the Exhibition Gala, Victor had wordlessly walked over to Bucky and slipped his extra hotel room keycard into his pocket. They broke it off two months later, when Victor moved back to Spain, but they still kept in touch.

Sex with Victor had been curious, with a lot of stops and starts. Occasionally it was painful. It took a little while before it got good, and then it was pleasant and a way to pass the time. 

Now, Steve's voice over the phone line has Bucky practically breaking into a full body sweat. Victor, while handsome, kind, and sporting a beautiful Catalonian accent, had never given Bucky this  _ache_. 

He manages to get through the rest of the conversation generally unscathed, and when he hangs up the phone, Bucky shoves his hand in his sleep shorts. It's hardly the first time he's touched himself and thought about Steve - hell, the first time he got hard at the thought of his best friend was back in grade school, before he really even knew what that meant - but it's the first time he's been able to visualize something so clearly. Steve had been out of breath when he'd called, his voice little more than a quiet murmur. He was probably calling right after he'd had sex with Peggy (where the hell had Peggy been during the phone call? In another room? Already home? Asleep  next to him?). His body was probably that beautiful shade of peach pink. Maybe a little bit of sweat still lingered on his hairline, on the back of his neck. Bucky had a furious, scorching desire to trace the droplets with his fingers, then his tongue, getting up all the salt and skin he could find.

His back arches as the visual of Steve fumbling through his first sexual encounter goes straight through his spine, right to the bundle of nerves behind his balls. When he comes, Steve's name is on the tip of his tongue.

He cleans up and falls asleep with more than a small amount of shame.

 

* * *

 

_March, 2015._

"I miss you." 

Bucky smiles at his phone. Steve's face, slightly pixelated on Facetime, still conveys how much he means that declaration. He's in Vancouver with his team, while Bucky is in Shanghai for Worlds, and the timing managed to work out so they were able to get a call in between events. 

"How's the road trip going?" he asks, adjusting so he's more comfortable on the hotel room bed. He can see Steve's 

"Not bad. I was able to go home for a bit. I miss Brooklyn." 

"I miss it, too."

There's that pause. The one Bucky's gotten used to. The one that means they're hiding all of the things they really want to say. Bucky's still in Detroit, Steve's in Calgary. The long distance thing has worked so far - they love each other too much for it not to. And when they're together, they make it count. But lately, the separations have started to hurt more. Going to bed without Steve there is getting to be an unwelcome ritual. The goodbyes are a little longer.

But.

And it's a big, devastating  _but._

_*_

_"You know I would move in with you in a second, but I can't," Steve said, eyes impossibly sad. "I'm trying to get traded to New York, and I know you want to go back to Brooklyn, so that's one thing. But I can't come out. Not yet."_

_"I know. I get it." Bucky swallowed around the scream again._

_*_

Dating a closeted man in a relentlessly masculine sport is an exercise in secrets and hiding. Sometimes it results in explosive, amazing sex in private places (or public places when they're both too horny to make it home). Sometimes it means painful separations during events they'd kill to walk through together, like when Steve received the Art Ross trophy for most points scored at the end of the 2013-2014 season. They had just started dating, and Bucky had stayed home to avoid questions. In his acceptance speech, Steve had said, "I'd like to dedicate this to the people in my life who believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. I'll see you soon." Bucky, watching from Detroit, had known that part was for him. He curled up into a ball to protect the crushing feeling in his chest.

Over the last year he's tried to get used to it for Steve's sake. The NHL isn't exactly known for being a bastion of gay rights. It's better than football, and Steve was psyched when they started using rainbow tape on their hockey sticks for Pride Week, but there's a long and hard line between being an advocate for gay rights and welcoming LGBTQ players into the fold. In Bucky's head, Steve's such a popular, strong player that he can't possibly be blackballed from the league for being bisexual. Then again, Bucky's known what it's like to be closeted, and that was in a sport that everyone presumes is fully welcoming to gay men. 

Bucky loves Steve so much it's like he's constantly being set alight, but the fire feels like home.

He knows this is just as hard for Steve as it is for him. Probably even harder. Bucky's publicly out now, and after a few interviews and in-depth profiles for ESPN and Sports Illustrated, it's settled into normalcy. He's even training to be on the summer leg of the Stars on Ice tour, something that never would have happened during his competing days. 

"Some day?" he asks quietly, feeling his body curl up, as if Steve were right next to him and he could spoon around him. It's become a ritual for them. Whenever this conversation comes up, one of them eventually just sighs and says  _Some day?_ To which the other person responds in kind. This time, Steve responds "Soon," and despite the downturn of the emotions in both of their voices, Steve's eyes are full of purpose. Bucky believes him.

Their ensuing conversation is quiet, thoughtful. When they hang up, Bucky stares at the phone for a long, long time, before he texts  _I love you so much_ to Steve. Steve responds  _I love you too. More than you'll ever know._

 

* * *

 

In June, he begins his round of performances with the Stars on Ice cast in Hartford, Connecticut, and performs to "Glitter in the Air" by Pink. At the end of his performance, he pulls handfuls of glitter out of his pockets and, in his final combination spin, holds his arms out so they spray from his hands, covering the ice, to a roar from the crowd. 

_Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself can it ever get better than tonight?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know - by 2018, these two are living together and in Brooklyn and they get engaged and everything is great and happy. But there's a LOT to cover between February 2014 and April 2018 when they make that wedding announcement that closed the first part of this Olympics AU, and one of those hurdles is that Steve is still a closeted NHL player and they live in two different countries with two wildly different schedules. So, yeah. Course of true love gets bumpy. But obviously there's a happy ending. 
> 
> Comments/kudos make me happy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjusting takes time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the Black Widow!

_St. Petersberg, Russia. 2002._

"Well, James, this is going to be a problem. Unless you make sure this doesn't happen again." 

Pierce's eyes seem kind, almost paternal. If someone blurred their own vision, they wouldn't be able to see the subtext. Bucky knows. Bucky knows it means  _You will never do this again or I will drop your ass back in Brooklyn and you'll be doing tricks at Rockefeller Center for Al Roker._

Champions don't fuck the competition. 

Later, Bucky finds out Pierce went through his contacts and deleted Victor's phone number. The betrayal guts him. He wonders if Pierce took Steve's number as well; he's kept it, even though he hasn't talked to him since that night when Steve caught him with Kurt. Steve had sent him a few text messages, trying to apologize, and Bucky had ignored all of them. So it wasn't too much of a surprise when the texts had faded away. But when he gets his phone back, there it is.  _Steve Rogers._

A few months later he wrestles with deleting Steve's number himself.

He keeps it. A rare shard of hope.

* * *

Adjusting to Russia takes time. He speaks the language in a stilted, loping style, occasionally stopping to swap to English when a word eludes him. His language tutor is a terrifying woman with a voice like a cannon that booms when she yells at the boys in the apartment next door for being too rowdy.

Slowly, he grows to like his home country, to appreciate the beautiful guttural style of the language in the country as opposed to the formal sounds in the cities. It’s completely different from Brooklyn, although sometimes the winters make him think about trudging through the snow at the subway station. Which makes him think of Steve, bundled up to the eyebrows in layers and scarves, cheeks pink with the cold, eyes sparkling as the sunrise comes over the street. 

Russia is large and foreboding. They put sour cream on everything. And the pizza is _terrible_. 

But in some ways, it’s easier to be here. 

*

He's devastated when his injuries leave him off the Olympic team. He's nineteen for Salt Lake. He should be in his prime. One of the top skaters in the world. He moved to  _Russia._ Pierce just shakes his head and sends him off to massage therapy. For the next several weeks, he recuperates and barely watches any of the coverage. Winnie tells him on the phone that Steve didn't make the team either, but that's to be expected - the hockey team rarely takes college players, if ever. 

he accidentally walks into the class before his at the Mariinsky. He stops dead in his tracks, unable to even apologize. 

She’s in the middle of the floor, pulling off fouettés like it’s not even hard. Her hair is scraped back into a severe bun but it’s still a searing spot of red in the middle of a grey and cream colored room. Her soft shoe remains in place; she’s thirteen, so pointe shoes were probably used at some point in the lesson, but it’s a process to work up to that kind of continual pressure on a young foot. Still, she’s positioned on her slipper like the figurine in a music box, never moving from her spot. Her gaze is laser focused on one point in the mirror every time she turns, spotting effortlessly. The instructor’s voice barely registers in Bucky’s ear. He’s simply enthralled. 

American-born Russian Federation skater Natasha Romanov already has a reputation at the school. Carol’s nicknamed her “spider.” “She’s a killer, man,” she complains, with no shortage of admiration, to Bucky one day over lunch. “Her lines are ridiculous.”

”Yeah?” Bucky’s distracted. Mom sends him the local paper sometimes, and there’s a blurb on Quinnipiac. He manages to read two lines before it sits rock solid in his chest. 

He drags his focus back to Carol, who stabs at her iceberg lettuce. “Pierce told me to watch her at practice. Said I skate too heavy." That's Pierce lingo for  _you're fat_ , and it makes Bucky's blood boil. Carol, with her strong legs and powerful jumps, reminds him a lot of Surya Bonaly in her prime. He's even seen Carol pull off a backflip in practice. 

Now, watching Natasha absolutely demolish the Black Swan solo, Bucky can understand a little bit of how Carol feels. Natasha's musicality, even at the age of thirteen, is awesome. In the "fills one with awe" sense, not the "tubular, dude" sense.

When it's over, Natasha's barely even sweating. She passes a hand over her slightly dewy forehead, then her eyes lock onto Bucky's. "American, right?" Her voice sounds like it should be coming out of a forty-year old with a pack a day habit. Bucky nods. "You're really good," he manages, lamely. 

To his surprise, Natasha cracks a small smile. " _Spasibo **,"**_ she says. Then she's gone, a silent exit in a flash of black tulle and red hair. Later, she comes up to Bucky at lunch and tells him "Coach says your name is James? I will call you Yasha." She's gone before Bucky can even swallow his soup and answer her.

 And that's how Bucky became friends with Natasha Romanov. The age difference isn't that big of a deal - the girl is smart as a whip and loves to read, and Bucky's always been a little bit immature for his age. They bond over their mutual love of spy novels and 80s boy bands. It's easy to talk to Nat, even though she terrifies most people. She doesn't scare Bucky too much, not after he sees her improv-ing to "Poison" by Bell Biv Devoe. 

*

She's the first one aside from Pierce to find out about Steve. In early 2004, in between Nationals and Worlds, Winnie sends Bucky back to Russia with a few things from home: baseball cards, the old blanket his grandmother made when he was a baby, and a box of VHS tapes. Amongst the recorded episodes of SNL is nestled a tape with the innocuous title  _QU Games_.

Nat catches him watching the tape in his room, after she stops by with a bag of contraband sugar cookies. "Hockey?" She doesn't even bother to say hello, just tosses the bag onto Bucky's desk and flops into a perfect pretzel on the rug. Bucky barely registers her presence. His eyes are laser focused onto number 45, with the broad shoulders and the huge smile, as he scores another goal. He looks straight into the camera and waggles a finger, in that typical smartass style that's so Steve Rogers it makes Bucky's teeth hurt.

Carol, who's been slightly paying attention to all of this while taking breaks setting up her Myspace page, stops what she's doing. "That guy is hot," she says, pointing to Steve. "I mean, damn."

Bucky bites down the urge to scream at her. He can feel Natasha's eyes on him, green dots of observation that shouldn't cut him to the bone like they do. 

"Yeah. That's Steve." The words are gritted out, sandpaper in his throat. Carol smirks. "You sound like you don't like him, Barnes."

"I think that's the opposite of what Yasha is saying," Natasha says quietly. Bucky's heart stops. Carol sits up in her chair. "Ah. Okay. Never mind, then."

Bucky whips his head around to glare at Nat, hoping his anger can disguise his blind panic, but she's looking away, back at the TV. Later, when Carol's back in her own room, Nat looks at him. "You know it's okay, right?" 

"What? What's okay?"

"It's okay that you like boys. I don't care. I know Pierce does, but I don't. I won't tell anyone."

Before Bucky can even process what's just been said, Natasha adds, "You must really like him."

Bucky looks down at the floor, head helicoptering with nothing and everything. "Understatement, spider."

Later, when Pierce asks Bucky and Carol to pretend to date for the publicity, Carol doesn't argue. She supports Bucky, holds his hand, kisses his cheek for all the cameras to see. Bucky plays along, all charm and grace, while hoping to God Steve never sees it.

* * *

_July, 2016._

 "Pick up, pick up, pick up," Bucky mutters, angrily brushing off the last of the stray tears that squeezed their way out of his eyes. He and Nat are both in New York for some TV show appearance. Ever since she retired from competitive skating, she's been trying to work her way into TV presenting and sports commentary. Bucky's been able to do some skating events with her, and loves every second of it.

He does not love this.

The line barely clicks to live as Natasha answers and Bucky's off and running - "He called me to fucking apologize for not bringing me to LA for the road trip, and then before I can even say anything he's all 'well, your sport is more understanding of this shit, Buck' and I'm like  _are you fucking kidding me, I was closeted for ten years, you dick_ , and then he got all quiet and then I started crying and then he said he had to go." He sucks in a breath. "I don't know what to do." 

There's barely a second of silence before Natasha says, "Room 503. Bring vodka."

He barely gets through the door of her hotel room before he's in her arms, sniffling, the bottle of Belvedere he snagged from the liquor store next to their hotel hanging loosely at his side. Natasha holds him with the same strong, sure grip she had the night in Torino when Bucky came to her room wild-eyed and heartbroken after his run-in with Steve in the Villaggio bar. 

As she holds him, Bucky tells it from the beginning. How Steve was doing press in LA for the upcoming ESPYs, and had mentioned he didn't have a date to the awards ceremony. Bucky had called him, half blind with rage.

"I'm so tired of hiding," he finally whimpers into her shoulder, once Nat gets him onto the bed and pours two fingers of alcohol straight down his throat. He wishes she'd requested bourbon; something that seared him from the inside out. "I just want to be public and be done with it."

"Don't you think you're being a little selfish, Yasha?"

Sometimes Bucky really hates her. "Yes, Natashenka."

"Okay, just checking." Nat moves away so Bucky can noisily blow his nose. She's still made up and coiffed from her interview, but from the neck down she's ready for bed. The bed is huge, so they both pile into it, and Natasha orders room service. 

An hour later, they're both pleasantly buzzed, and Bucky rests his head on Nat's shoulder. "I don't want to lose him. But it's so hard."

"It's kind of an open secret, though, right? I mean, the team knows about you, and hasn't said boo."

That's true - the Flames had been totally cool with him. Steve and Bucky had been dating for about a year when Steve brought Bucky to Calgary's end of year cookout. They had been met with more surprise that they knew each other at all, rather than the fact that they were in a relationship. 

"It's just - ugh." Bucky eats a French fry, stalling. 

"You keep this up and I won't let you have any of the chocolate cake they sent up when they found out it was me ordering," Nat says, in deadly seriousness. Bucky sighs. "Okay. I know this is dumb and irrational. But I sometimes feel like he doesn't want to say anything because he's as-"

"If you say 'ashamed' I'm going to smash this burger in your face, and I've been waiting to eat this burger for five hours," Nat interrupts, eyes ablaze. "Do you know how much that boy loves you, James?" It was serious; she never used his full first name.

"Yeah-"

"Do you know how long he's loved you? Remember when you came back to Russia after you kissed him at his apartment? You looked like you'd been punched in the face with a truck."

Fuck. Bucky lets his head hit the pillows, wishing the marshmallow-like cocoon of the bed could swallow him alive. That kiss had been so fucking stupid, and yet, the best thing that had ever happened to Bucky up to that point. Steve had been shocked, both by the kiss and by Bucky showing up at his door. But when he'd kissed back - when he'd kissed back and wrapped his arms around Bucky's waist, nearly lifting him off the floor - Bucky had used that as jerkoff material for years.

"You told me you were in love with him," Nat says, like she needs to remind him.

"Yeah, that's not new," Bucky grouses. He doesn't need any clarification. He's known that since he was five years old. 

"Then why don't you trust him?"

Well. That put a whole new guilty spin on things.

Steve was always there to surprise him when Bucky got home from a long trip with his athletes, if not in person, then in spirit - either with flowers sent to his apartment, or a box of chocolates at his door. He'd send little sketches or doodles through email when he got decent wifi. He surprised Bucky with a visit during his last swing into town to play the Red Wings, and blew him in the shower before he had to leave the next morning. He's there in every way that counts in private.

"I love you to death, Yasha," Nat said, as Bucky felt a stone sink into the bottom of his stomach, "but you can be kind of a dumbass."

They end up falling asleep together, the empty room service trays scattered across the end of the bed. When Bucky wakes up the next day with one bitch of a hangover he has three text messages, all from Sam.

_SAM: Dude_

_SAM: DUDE_

_SAM; OPEN YOUR EMAIL_

Bucky blinks, and checks the time on his phone. 7AM. "Fuck, this better be good," he mumbles. Nat groans in Russian, then smacks him on the arm.

When Bucky opens his email, he feels his jaw drop.

It's a forwarded email chain between Steve and his publicist, Bernie Rosenthal. Steve had forwarded it to Sam with the subject line _Thoughts?_

Bernie had written to Steve:

_I want you to really, really think about this, Steve. Doing a personal interview is always great so fans can see behind the curtain, as it were, but if you choose to come out about your sexuality and about your relationship with James, it might damage your career. Really take a few days to consider what you're asking. Of course I'll support you no matter what, it's just a big decision._

Steve had written back to Bernie _I've already thought about it. I'm done hiding._

Sam's sent another text message to Bucky, a screenshot of he and Steve's text message window. 

_Sam: Okay  
_ _Sam: I want you to think about this very, very carefully  
_ _Sam: Because it could ruin your career  
_ _Sam: You'd be the first out active NHL player  
_ _Sam: You need to think about it  
_ _Sam: A lot_   


_Steve: Sam I'm done thinking about it  
_ _Steve: All I do is think about it and I can't do this to Bucky anymore_

New screenshot.

_Steve: Every time I can't bring him with me to an event it kills me.  
_ _Steve: And he's been fine but we had a big fight. I'm scared Sam. I don't want to be without him._   


_Sam: Uggggggh you guys are gross  
_ _Sam: Steve I'm trying to eat my pre-workout  
_ _Sam: Isn't it like 2AM in LA?!_

_Steve: 3 AM, I haven't slept._  
Steve: I emailed Bernie as soon as I got off the phone with Bucky.  
Steve: I can't hide who I am anymore. And I can't hide him. He doesn't deserve that. Not after all he's been through.

 Bucky doesn't cry until Nat looks over his shoulder, sees his phone, and then whispers, "Oh, Yasha." Then he's gone.

His phone buzzes. Bucky manages to wipe off his face so he can see it. A text from Steve, a photo of a plane ticket - LAX to JFK. It lands at 5PM EST.

*

They can't hug in the airport. Not yet. Bucky doesn't even go to pick him up. He just sits in the hotel like a man with a death sentence until there's a light knock around 8PM.

Steve barely gets a "hi" out before Bucky's yanked him into the room, slammed the door shut, and pressed him up against it. Not kissing him, just latching onto him with everything he's got. Steve's clearly expecting this reaction, because he doesn't say anything for a while. He just tucks Bucky's head under his chin, and smooths his hands over Bucky's back in strong strokes while Bucky just unloads. Multiple "I'm sorry's" spill out before Steve pulls back and knocks away the tears on Bucky's cheeks; he's crying too, although not as loudly. "I'm doing an interview with ESPN magazine. It should be out in November."

"Do...do they know-"

"That I'm coming out? Probably not. It's a profile piece, so they'll know I'll get intimate, but I don't think they're expecting this. Although Bernie might tip them off just to prepare them."

"I...I don't want you to feel like you have to do this for me." Bucky shakes his head a little, trying to get a sense of everything he's feeling and utterly failing. "I don't want to force you into this."

"You aren't forcing me into anything." Steve draws himself up to his full height. "I was miserable hiding you from everyone. Faking that I was single. I want everyone to know I'm taken, and that you're the one who took me."

Bucky's so moved, for a second, he doesn't even see Steve's little smirk. When he does, he groans. "Oh my god, you're the worst. Never mind. I'm leaving you."

"Impossible," Steve replies, his voice swooping low into a growl that pings off the musculature in Bucky's body and lights it on fire, instantly. He picks Bucky up in a fireman's carry and deposits him onto the bed. "And for the record..." He stops, his eyes so soft Bucky wants to wrap himself up in them like a blanket. "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

Bucky wants to tease, wants to say  _Fuck me and I'll forgive you_ but he can't. He's lost the words. He just reaches up, and pulls Steve down to the bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr!](http://marciellaniello.tumblr.com)
> 
> COMMENTS AND KUDOS MAKE ME SO HAPPY.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two interviews. One outcome.

_November, 2014._

 Article,  _Sports Illustrated._

**_Ice Crusade: James Barnes Finds His Identity In and Out of the Rink_  
C. Everheart, Beat Writer**

_When preparing for an interview with James Barnes, two-time Olympic silver medalist and multi-time World Champ in men's singles figure skating, one must do their research by looking up his most iconic routines on YouTube. The common thread that occurs during a binge-watch of Barnes's routines is the consistency of his artistry, the elegance of his spins, and the intricacy of his step sequences. If figure skating were just about those three components, he would be nigh unbeatable. Unfortunately, the sport is also about the technical skill that comes with jumps, and on that level, "I never really had a shot," Barnes laughs over coffee at Bugle Roasters in Detroit, Michigan, where he makes his living now training the up and coming skaters of tomorrow. "I love the art of skating. It's why I really enjoyed going to ballet and Pilates and all of that stuff other skaters aren't too jazzed about." He pours three sugars into his cafe Americano. "I'm an addict. I can't stop. My mom hates it, but whatever."_

_Barnes, 32, still carries the intense charisma and lean musculature of his competition days, despite announcing his retirement in 2010 after a round of shoulder surgeries made it impossible to compete at the intense international level. "It was awful," Barnes says, with nearly zero sadness clouding his tone. "But I think it was meant to happen when it happened. I don't think I would've wanted to compete in Sochi. My body would've given out on me well before that." When I ask if his former coach, the now-exiled Alexander Pierce, had wanted him to keep going until the 2014 Winter Olympics, Barnes's eyes go dark. "I don't really care what he wanted then or now."_

_The saga of Pierce and Barnes has been playing out for more than a decade, ever since James announced his intentions to move to Detroit, and then Russia, to work with the famed skating coach. The downfall of Pierce has been articulated in other publications, and Barnes has talked about it openly in interviews with_ ESPN Magazine _, but as Barnes himself says wryly "Nobody really wants to talk to me now that it's all blown over. It's like I got pushed under a rock._

_"And honestly?" James throws me a big smile, suddenly looking far younger than his years. "I kind of prefer it that way."_

_James Buchanan Barnes was born to Winifred and George at Mount Sinai West on March 10, 1982. Winifred, who insists I call her Winnie, tells me she sat feeding James during Scott Hamilton's gold medal performance in the '84 Olympics in Sarajevo. "He was bouncing around in my arms, trying to get out and crawl over to the TV," she says, while James, terribly fond, rolls his eyes._

_When he was four, James - or "Bucky" as his friends and family call him - took his first skating class in Brooklyn. "I was hooked, instantly," James remembers, a slow smile spreading across his face. "It just felt so free and easy to be out there. It helped me process a lot, especially as I got older."_

_I assume the 'a lot' was his struggle with accepting his sexuality. Barnes shrugs. "Yeah, I mean - what better way to hide being gay than to put on glittery costumes and skate to Aaliyah?" His laugh carries a bite. The stories of Barnes being forced into the closet by Pierce are well-known, including but not limited to a fake relationship with fellow American skater Carol Danvers for the sake of publicity. "God bless Carol. I mean, she's a saint." A shadow falls across his face, despite the effusive praise - Danvers was sidelined with major knee injuries and was forced to retire at the age of 25. "It broke her heart," Barnes says._

_Retirement seems to suit Barnes just fine, however. "I'm actually the happiest I've ever been," he says, and it's obvious he speaks truth - when talking about what he does now, there's a glow to his face and he sits up a little straighter. "It's been a really long time since I've gotten the opportunity to just be myself, and do what I want to do. Now I'm able to do that and it feels fantastic." Part of that includes the opportunity to coach up and coming skating stars such as the Maximoff twins, who nearly medaled in ice dancing in Sochi, and Natasha Romanov, who repeated her gold medal performance from Vancouver to the delight of her adopted hometown crowd. "Nat has always been a really good friend of mine, ever since we trained under Pierce. So to transition into being her coach has been pretty natural."_

_Romanov echoed that sentiment in a phone call. "Yasha is one of the most giving, sweet people you could ever meet, but his backbone is made of steel. Watching him become his true self again both in private and in public has been a joy to watch."_

_Being an out athlete in a world that seems to be a little more welcoming to LGTBQ individuals might be a burden to younger stars, but Barnes seems to welcome the spotlight. "I'm proud of who I am, and if there are any kids out there who can see me as an example of an out gay man who's living a great life with a lot of love in it, that's all I can ask for. One person can make a difference. I really do believe that."_

_So is love a possibility for James Barnes? A flush creeps over the preternaturally porcelain skin that's spent so many years cooped up in cold ice rinks or enduring Russian winters. "You could say that." But he refuses to name any names. "I'm incredibly happy, let's leave it at that."_

_Happiness looks good on the once tortured skater whose routines captivated the world but always seemed to fall short of true Olympic gold medal glory. But to Barnes, it's not really anything special. "That stuff used to matter to me. But now..." He sighs, seeming utterly content. "Now my life is pretty full."_

* * *

 

 

_November, 2016._

**Captain America Goes for Broke**

_Steve Rogers is having a crazy day. "I'm so sorry," he blusters, sweeping into Bar Pitti in the West Village in full hat and beard disguise. Because it's New York, nobody really gives him a second glance, but if this were Calgary, Alberta, there would be a mob scene forming at the front of the cafe. The man Flames fans have nicknamed Captain America has quite a base of stardom in the Great White North, but if it were up to Rogers, he'd be back in Brooklyn. "This is my home," he says, gesturing to the street behind him, where a man with a tambourine strapped to his back is playing the harp for change on the corner. "Everything I know is here."_

_It's been a fascinating journey for the 34 year old NHL star, who most recently carried the flag for Team USA in the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi and is said to still be on the fence for the 2018 Pyeongchang Games. Born in Brooklyn, New York, to Sarah and the late Joseph Rogers, Steven Grant Rogers wasn't anyone's idea of a hockey star. Skinny, frail, and constantly ill, he underwent heart surgery at the age of nine to repair a faulty valve. "I wouldn't have gotten through it without my mom," he says firmly, wrapping giant hands around a mug of green tea. "She's a superwoman." Sarah, a nurse, pulled double duty after Joseph passed away when Rogers was eight, and it was at the hockey rink that Rogers felt he could unburden himself of his grief._

_"I wasn't necessarily a bad kid. But I had a vicious temper. Hockey helped me get it all out. Even if it meant getting into fights." Rogers sounds far away when he talks about that part of his life. "I was really angry. Especially when I got to high school. But getting recruited by Erskine and Quinnipiac helped to sort me out."_

_The story is well known from there - Rogers began a fitness and diet regimen that caused him to pack on muscle, which combined with a late growth spurt transformed him from a skinny goon to a powerful winger. He excelled at Quinnipiac under the tutelage of Bruce Banner and the late Abraham Erskine, and made his debut with the Flames after a year of farm league action and a delay from the 2004 hockey strike. But Rogers is more concerned with where he's at right now - and where he's at now is with an eye on the future._

_A buzz interrupts our conversation on Donald Trump's election, and Rogers throws me an apologetic look when he grabs it. "Sorry, it's Buck. He's flying into Brooklyn tonight. We're looking at apartments."_

_And there it is - that simple, and that revolutionary. For 'Bucky' is James Barnes, superstar figure skater and fellow Olympian. And, perhaps most importantly for this article, the long-time boyfriend of Steve 'Captain America' Rogers._

_Their love story goes back to the ice rinks of Brooklyn, when the two met at the age of five. "I thought he was just the coolest person alive," Steve says, barely able to contain the stars in his eyes. "It wasn't until we got separated in high school that I realized I probably had more than just friendly feelings for him."  They didn't officially get together until after the 2014 Games, but according to Rogers, it was worth the wait. "He's the love of my life," he says, more to his burger than to me, but it sounds like the words of a man with the unique problem of feeling too much and having no idea how to process it. "Which is why it was so hard to hide it."_

_The NHL is not necessarily the kindest to LGBTQ players. Sure, there's the You Can Play initiative, but according to Rogers, that's just a Band-Aid on the problem. "There are no out active players in the NHL.” He leans forward, the full passion of his feelings coming out. “Yeah, the team doesn’t care that I’m bisexual, but i want to hold hands with my boyfriend in public without looking over my shoulder.”_

_It was a conversation with Barnes, who was forced into the closet by a former coach, that helped Rogers see the light. “I was with this amazing man, who is so brave and lives so openly. And I was forcing him to hide who he is after so many years of him already having to do that.”_

_The relationship also sparked a turnaround in his gameplay - “I play my absolute best when he’s around. Not that he knows much about hockey, but he’s a grounding force for me. He’s not afraid to call me out on my shit. And vice versa. I’m a punk, and he’s a jerk. And it works for us.”_

_This interview has been a long time coming for Steve, who sees his coming-out as a stepping stone for other athletes. “If I can help one person be more okay with who they are, that’s more than I could ever ask for.”_

_He moves to grab the check, insisting he pay the full tab plus tip. I notice a tattoo running up the inside of his left forearm. It says “To The End of the Line.” I ask about it, and Rogers grins like a streak of sunlight. “Private thing. But it’s very meaningful.”_

_And in some cases, Steve Rogers has earned the right to be private._

 

* * *

 

 

 

_December, 2017._

“You know it’s going to be a lot harder for you than it will be for me,” Bucky asserts as he pushes off from the boards. Sure, hockey blades are much different than figure skates, with the single blade instead of two, but that’s easy to get used to. Steve, on the other hand - 

“How the fuck do you do this?!” Steve nearly falls square on his ass, and Bucky howls. “Shut up, Buck,” he growls. “It’s like skating on four blades!”

The idea came to Bucky after watching an old Kurt Browning video where he did footwork in hockey skates. Steve had immediately kindled to the idea, but warned Bucky he was going to be terrible. Bucky, of course, was giddy at the idea of watching his boyfriend try his hand at his sport, or anything adjacent to it. 

He skates back to Steve, offering a hand. “Come on. I’ll help you.” Steve rolls his eyes but grabs on. They managed to get the Brooklyn rink on a slow day, and Steve had somehow convinced the manager to give them the whole place for two hours. Bucky suspected it was due to Steve being, well, Steve. 

They mess around for another twenty or so minutes before Steve cries uncle. “I feel like I’m learning to skate all over again, and it’s just as shitty as back then,” he whines. Bucky takes pity on him, and they change into their own boots. 

The second Bucky hits the ice he feels at home. Untouchable, fearless. He glides around, waiting for Steve to lace up his impossible boots. “Come on, it’s no fun without you out here,” he calls, breaking into a sarcastic clap when Steve finally emerges from the bench. 

Steve doesn’t laugh back. Nor does he immediately break into a sprint in his skates. He glides up to Bucky, close enough to take both of his hands. 

And drops to his knees. 

The first thing Bucky can think of to say (when the world stops spinning) is “Oh, you fucking asshole!” 

Because of course. Of course that’s why Steve got the rink for just the two of them. Of course that’s why he insisted on coming back to Brooklyn the week before Christmas even though it would be a huge bitch in both their schedules. Of course it was all a gigantic setup. Because Steve Rogers is a goddamn punk bastard, who right now is looking at Bucky like he is the alpha and the omega, and he’s saying things that Bucky probably should be listening to but nothing is getting into Bucky’s ears but loud, piercing static and the sound of church bells. 

“Yes,” he stammers, then says it again, clearly this time. “Yes, Yes, Yes.”

 

Later, when they’re back in their apartment, Steve shows Bucky the speech he had originally planned to make during his proposal. “But all that came out was - Bucky, uh, um, you make me happy, and, uh, marry me?”

Bucky looks down at the ring Steve had slid onto his shaking hand, and just grins. “Sounds like us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos make me so happy!! 
> 
> There will probably be about 4-5 chapters of this.


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